Hate Is a Strong Word
by Kanousei
Summary: There was a particular hell which descended on earth in the late, still days of August. Dry, scorching heat which burnt the grass to the consistency of hay, empty blue skies without even the vague, hopeful suggestion of a cloud. Drabble MugenJin oneshot


A/N: This is inspired entirely by a magnificent piece called "the space between distant airs doesn't care" by iianbe on Y!gallery. A section of the dialogue is lifted from her summary, as well, because it was just perfect.

**Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue; me no own, so you no sue!**

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There was a particular hell which descended on earth in the late, still days of August. Dry, scorching heat which burnt the grass to the consistency of hay, empty blue skies without even the vague, hopeful suggestion of a cloud. Thick air, undisturbed by even the slightest merciful breeze. Chittering insects were maddeningly loud in Jin's ears, the reverberations of dense sound unchecked in the fetid noonday air. It was an endless, chaotic symphony which had stretched through the fields alongside the path for hours, as if conspiring to push him into insanity.

Sweat beaded and trickled down the angles of his face, pooled in the small of his back, made his clothes stick to skin and itch. The heat alone was enough to make him dizzy – Mugen and Fuu were faring little better. But a little better than he was, all the same – they tended to snatch just a bit more food than he was able to claim at meals, and so while they were all malnourished, exhausted, and suffering from doubtless dangerously low blood pressure, he was worst off – and beginning to see black spots at the edge of his vision.

The blurred outline of a settlement became visible on the horizon, and he had to restrain the urge to sprint at the thought of water, not even food but _water_, to ease the aching, dusty soreness in his throat.

Mugen felt no such compulsion, and sprinted halfway before collapsing, tongue lolling, until Fuu and Jin slowly passed him and he joined the end of the ragtag ensemble.

It took nearly another hour of sloughing about the small town to find a shrine, thankfully deserted as most of the rural worshippers would be working the fields beneath the searing sun. There was shade within, and even a few plates of stale rice cakes which they briefly tussled over (Jin inwardly cursed Fuu's ability to stuff edibles down with her breasts in time of need, rightly assuming that the men were too disturbed by the idea to go after them) before settling in the small room within. The air was equally stifling, but there was shade, as well as a mercifully placed bucket beneath a hole in the roof, high with rainwater from the week before.

It was impossible to determine how long they lay like languid, breathless cats on the floor, not so much as twitching unnecessarily so as not to invite further circulation of the blood, and therefore warmth.

On his back, near comatose in the heat, Jin watched a band of light slowly travel over the ceiling from a crack in the wall. It took a very long time for his fogged mind to realize that it was the passage of hours he was observing, as Amaterasu made her blazing procession across the sky.

When dusk began to fall, Fuu stirred and shambled from the small shrine, muttering something vaguely discernable as a plan to wash up in the first available stream, and see if any food could be discreetly picked from unwatched fields.

With the length of rest, Mugen seemed to have summoned just enough energy to strip out of his jacket and shirt, and Jin no longer found the task as daunting as it had seemed only hours before. The tumbled fabric made audible sounds in the still air.

The weary samurai propped himself against one weather wall, angular hands slowly kneading the tight knots beneath the skin in his shoulder and neck. It was only as he tilted his head to focus on one such stubborn spot at the curving juncture that he glimpsed an uncharacteristically still Mugen watching him, eyes unwavering.

Too tired even for an acerbic remark, he managed to arch one brow imperiously – an effect that was somewhat ruined as his working fingers hit a nerve and he groaned, startled, teeth catching his lip.

"Didn't know you had such delicate sensibilities," came the drawled, mocking reply. Mocking was one of the four categories into which, Jin had determined, the ruffian's expressions always fell. (The others being anger, stupidity, and sleep.)

"I mean, I know you're one uptight fucker, but do you have an ulcer to go with that? Maybe a broken nail?"

Now he knew his expression was flat and scornful.

"Say whatever you like, but in ten years I will be the one whose musculature is well-preserved, and you will be the stiff idiot who cannot even perform a proper kata. That is assuming, of course, that your stupidity doesn't kill you before then. I've heard the ailment is fatal."

His sword was in his hand and ready before his mind even registered Mugen's movement, though he was not able to rise fully – the darker swordsman caught him at wrist and elbow, back against the wall. Legs were useless; at an awkward angle, and one of them now straddled by the other's whipcord thighs.

Which brought another, increasingly unsavory detail to his attention. A heavy mass resting atop his thigh, unquestionably a hard shaft. Caught between sneering, snarling, and simply throttling Mugen to his messy little death, he looked back up at that leering visage, as crude as ever and in some ways far more threatening than when viewed in tandem with his odd blade.

The katana near the ruffian's abdomen, however, was quite real, and very much a threat. Jin was just mentally calculating where to gut the other to incite the longest and most agonizing death possible when that rough, smoky voice reverberated far too close to his ear.

"Hey now, don't point that thing at me." Mugen looked positively amused, and in the cooling dusk Jin found himself all too aware of the proximity of bare skin, the heat beginning to mingle in the space between them. Not that the other seemed oblivious, himself; quick eyes raked over his flesh, and over that which was as yet covered, with far too much interest.

"I should say the same to you. Take your hands off me," he ground out, testing the firmness of the grip on his wrist. This situation needed to be rectified immediately, before –

"Too late for that. You're already breathing hard." Triumph, in that, and worst of all the idiot was right. There was something far too _right_, far too erotic, in hands every bit as strong as his own pinning him. And in the unabashed, shameless, blazing sexuality in sharp eyes was so very unlike the demure modesty in a woman's (maddening, that, when it could take hours to determine if she was looking at you or just trying to get something out of her eye).

When the lean thigh between his legs ground against him, he was already aroused, no additional stimulation necessary.

Mugen didn't try to kiss him, at least – doubtless it seemed as inappropriate to the other as it did to him. But he did latch blunt teeth and chapped lips onto Jin's collarbone, and the pale samurai did not struggle when the sword was eased from his hand and tossed away (though he did watch to see where it fell. Only so much could be expected of a man wedded to his blade, after all).

Struggle did not come until he realized the twisting body against his was pushing him downward, until the rough wood was pressing sharply against his spine. Though his life had doubtless been more… chaste than Mugen's, he was hardly unaware of the technicalities of carnal congress between men. What was most irksome was that if he was the one being pinned, the darker swordsman had assumptions in mind concerning dominance of which he did not approve.

But the sandpaper tongue against his neck was making it difficult to do any more than bat away the rough, callused fingers trying to slip inside his hakama.

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shakes review can I have a gut urge to expand this into a looooong story with plot and building sexual tension and everything – and reviews would be fantastic incentive! 3


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